should send for it or come again.

"The bird--take him on my birthday to sing at her grave," he said to
Mme. Glozel just before he went West. "It is in summer, my birthday, and
you shall hear how he will sing there," he added in a low voice at the
very door. Then he took out a ten-dollar bill, and would have given it
to her to do this thing for him; but she would have none of his money.
She only wiped her eyes and deplored his going, and said that if ever
he wanted a home, and she was alive, he would know where to find it.
It sounded and looked sentimental, yet Jean Jacques was never less
sentimental in a very sentimental life. This particular morning he was
very quiet and grave, and not in the least agitated; he spoke like one
from a friendly, sun-bright distance to Mme. Glozel, and also to Mme.
Popincourt as he passed her at the door of her house.

Jean Jacques had no elation as he took the Western trail; there was not
much hope in his voice; but there was purpose and there was a little
stream of peace flowing through his being--and also, mark, a stream of
anger tumbling over rough places. He had read two letters addressed to
Carmen by the man--Hugo Stolphe--who had left her to her fate; and there
was a grim devouring thing in him which would break loose, if ever the
man crossed his path. He would not go hunting him, but if he passed
him or met him on the way--! Still he would go hunting--to find his
Carmencita, his little Carmen, his Zoe whom he had unwittingly, God
knew! driven forth into the far world of the millions of acres--a wide,
wide hunting-ground in good sooth.

So he left his beloved province where he no longer had a home, and
though no letters came to him from St. Saviour's, from Vilray or the
Manor Cartier, yet he heard the bells of memory when the Hand Invisible
arrested his footsteps. One day these bells rang so loud that he would
have heard them were he sunk in the world's deepest well of shame; but,
as it was, he now marched on hills far higher than the passes through
the mountains which his patchwork philosophy had ever provided.

It was in the town of Shilah on the Watloon River that the bells boomed
out--not because he had encountered one he had ever known far down by
the Beau Cheval, or in his glorious province, not because he had
found his Zoe, but because a man, the man--not George Masson, but the
other--met him in the way.

Shilah was a place to which, almost unconsciously, he had deviate